


Boogeyman

by PepperPrints



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6698023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're not afraid of the dark, Barry. You're afraid of being alone in the dark, and that goes away when you realize something. You're never really alone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boogeyman

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during s1, post Grodd Lives and before Rogue Air. Way back when Barrison Week was happening, I was working on this with a jumble of several of the prompts, and it's only finished now. The themes I used are only there if you squint, but there you go.
> 
> Warnings for: stalking, age difference, aggressive (but consensual!) encounters, among the canon typical gross stuff for this pairing.

_ Together, we can do anything. _

 

Except he can’t phase.

 

Barry has tried. He knows he succeeded once, and that success alone should be enough to reassure him, and yet…

 

Every time he tries to replicate it, Barry stalls himself. He skids to a halt before he hits the wall and he winces at the realization. It isn’t fear that stops him; not exactly. He knows how easily this could hurt him -- to say the least -- if he does it wrong, but it isn’t concern for his safety that slows him down.

 

His own mind holds him back, he’s certain of it, yet he can’t shake out of it. It’s easier to borrow someone else’s confidence, to listen to someone self assured and steady guiding him. Wells told him how once, and he can replay that advice in his ears over and over… but it seems to harm more than it helps.

 

No matter what he tells himself, he can’t take that final step.

 

_ I believe in you. _

 

But why? None of it makes any sense.

 

_ Why did you help me? Why did you hate me? _

 

With nowhere to put it, Barry swallows the sentiment down, and it makes his stomach feel sick.

 

How long were they being watched?

 

That thought lingers uneasily on Barry’s shoulders as he runs through Central City, trying to find any trace of either Thawne -- Eobard or Eddie -- with no success. It’s like they simply disappeared, and Barry doesn’t know where to begin.

 

How is he supposed to find them? Wells -- Thawne -- knows everything about him. He knows Barry’s strengths, his weaknesses, his limits… if he doesn’t want to be found, he’ll know where to go, what to do.

 

It isn’t just that he’s faster. It’s everything. It’s an advance born from a lifetime of being Barry’s shadow.

 

How long? The thought repeats and repeats as Barry runs. From the beginning. It had to be. From the night of his mother’s murder.

 

How much of himself - how much of who he is -- has changed because of that?

 

_ You’re no longer you now. _

 

What did he want him to be?

 

He tries to focus. It should make things easier, having a goal to distract his mind from racing in circles, but it only serves to make it worse.

 

_ You're no longer you now. You're part of something greater. _

 

And what does that even mean?

 

How is he supposed to catch Thawne when he doesn’t even understand this -- when he doesn’t even understand the Speed Force? Thawne has said the words so reverently, like it’s something savored on his tongue, like it’s the center of everything.

 

And Barry can’t even use it without Thawne’s voice in his ear.

 

He stops himself, just like every time before, and his gloved hands brace him as he presses to the wall -- not through it.

 

_ It’s yours. _

 

But not only his -- that’s how it works, isn’t it?

 

\--

 

At night, he sits alone in the lab, made bold with the safety of knowing that Caitlin and Cisco have left for the night. Barry stares at his phone, finds his nerve, then opens his contact list and presses call.

 

His heart beats faster with every dull, long ring, and then it skips at the sound of a familiar voice.

 

“You’ve reached Dr. Harrison Wells. Leave a message.”

 

Recoiling like he’s been struck, Barry hangs up before the tone. A sharp pang of guilt enters his gut and he drops his phone down on the desk as if it could bite him. He isn’t sure what he expects; of course there’s no answer.

 

He isn’t sure what he’d do if there actually was one.

 

Still.

 

Barry rubs the back of his neck before he presses the phone to his ear once more. The number dials, and it rings, and rings, and rings, until the voice mail clicks on once again.

 

“You’ve reached Dr. Harrison Wells--”

 

Liar. Barry thinks viciously. He almost is tempted to wait for the tone, to let the recording click on, and to shout that message into it: that isn’t who you are, you liar, liar, liar...

 

Instead he hangs up, feeling strangely cowardly for it. What’s worse, however, is how his chest deflates at the sound of his voice. Instinctively, there’s something about it that soothes. Steady. Familiar.

 

_ We don’t need you _ .

 

That thought is what glues them together. Even after everything: betrayal, loss after loss -- there’s an underlying hope; there’s conviction that they can make up for what was taken from them.

 

But he still can’t phase.

 

\--

 

Exhaustion comes down quicker.

 

Desperation leaves him absent minded and he leaves the Labs groggy and underfed. He’s never spent this much time running in such immediate succession, and its taking its toll. Taking a break feels treacherous; even stopping to catch his breath while Thawne is loose seems like too much to bear.

 

But Barry is only human. He does actually manage to make sure he’s in bed before he collapses, sinking into a worn mattress with a shudder.

 

He doesn’t stir again until sunlight peers in through his blinds, and he groans when it finally hits his face. Blinking blearily, he gropes for his phone to check the time. He’s slept in.

 

Not as late as he could have been -- it’s remarkably early for him, all things considered. He sighs, and he kicks his blankets off.

 

Somewhere, the motion sits uneasily on his shoulders. He pauses, his sleep-fogged mind slow to decipher the oddity of it all. He can’t remember bothering to crawl under the sheets last night; he was so worn out he practically fainted without even bothering to change his clothes, much less take off his…

 

His shoes. Barry finds them placed neatly by his bedside table, unknotted and perfectly in line.

 

Being half asleep and burying himself under the blankets, Barry could understand, but this… He would have been lucky to have the coherency to kick them off. But here they were: neat and tidy, set aside by clearly careful hands.

 

Did someone find him, and do it for him? Joe was out, so it couldn’t have been him, tucking him in so gently--

 

Barry shakes himself from it, but he wears a different pair of shoes on his way out.

 

\--

 

He breaks his wrist on the next attempt, and Caitlin resets his bones with a flustering sigh.

 

“What were you even doing?” she says in exasperation. “It’s like you hit a brick wall.”

 

Well.

 

“I kind of did.”

 

Caitlin lifts her gaze from his hand to his face, and Barry sees her expression change from annoyance to confusion, before settling down into something sad. She hides it again, bowing her head with the easy excuse of focusing on her work.

 

“I can’t do it,” Barry continues quietly. “I can’t phase.”

 

“Yes, you can,” she counters. “You’re just -- thinking too hard, that’s all.”

 

That’s all.

 

It isn’t what she really thinks, and her face gives it away far too easily. She’s holding the truth in her mouth for his sake, and he’s honestly grateful for it. Barry doesn’t argue. He thanks Caitlin as she patches him back together, and sits tensely as she lingers.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she offers quietly, and Barry’s shoulders sink.

 

“I don’t think I’d know what to say,” he replies simply, but his tone trails off. Caitlin waits, feeling what’s left unspoken: he does know what to say, it’s simply mustering the strength to do so that feels so heavy.

 

“He’s out there, Caitlin,” he says at length, and the words feel sharp in his mouth.

 

“I know,” she says, unhesitating but soft.

 

“He has Eddie.”

 

“I know.” Again, quieter this time, and somehow it makes Barry’s chest ache.

 

“I thought, maybe, searching for him would be so much faster if I could just…” Barry tries to make a motion with his hand, then simply ends up gesturing to his mending wrist. “But I can’t.”

 

“You can,” Caitlin’s reply is immediate and so confident in him, so self assured, that it’s almost more painful than doubt would be. “We know you can.”

 

The corner of Barry’s mouth pulls, and then he simply nods his head. Caitlin takes pity on him, and her hand squeezes down on his shoulder. “Do you want to go out?” she offers. “Take your mind off of things? I could call Cisco. We could make a night out of it.”

 

Barry chuckles weakly, and he shakes his head. “No, I mean -- it sounds great but. I don’t think I can with -- you know? Knowing he’s out there.”

 

Barry bows his head, purposefully avoiding her face as he continues.

 

“Besides, I -- I have somewhere I gotta be tonight.”

 

Caitlin doesn’t push the subject, and Barry is grateful for it, because what he’s doing is something he wants to keep to himself.

 

\--

 

When Joe leaves for work, he digs out old photo albums from the bedroom closet.

 

They’re thick things, mismatched and marked for every year. Joe’s blocky handwriting marks the earliest ones, then there’s a few shaky scrawls by Iris’ hand when she was young and enthusiastic about doing it herself. January is spelled without the ‘a’ because Joe was either too kind or endeared to correct it -- but those years are all too early, they’re all before Barry came to live with them in this house.

 

Barry finds the volumes that he needs, loads them into his arms, then spreads them out across his bedroom floor.

 

Every second he spends not looking for Thawne feels cowardly somehow. It’s a guilty crawl that he has to shake off the back of his neck -- in a way, Barry reasons to himself, that is what he’s doing here. He flips through sticky photo pages, scanning through yearbook pictures, fairs and sports events, not knowing entirely what he’s seeking with such fervor.

 

He’ll know it when he sees it; he believes that instinctively. Something in his gut convinces him, and he touches worn images with his fingertips.

 

_ You’re here _ , something pulls at him and makes him positive that it’s true. _ Somehow, somewhere, you were here and you were watching me _ .

 

Is that what it means? This thing -- this power that they both have lining their bones? Is that why Barry can feel the ghost of him here?

 

Speed force.

 

Barry’s fingers land on one image: a worn photograph of himself with scraped knees and swollen red eyes. His hand is half raised as he laughs, as if to entreat Iris to put the camera down since he’s such a mess.

 

A memory she thought important enough to document: a time he was upset and she made him laugh instead.

 

Carefully, Barry peels it from the album and checks the sharpie writing on the back. Iris has dated it, but it’s smeared, and so has her description. He can make out a heart, and at least three exclamation points.

 

What was this? It’s strange how much he forgets. How easily memories can slip. Especially the more years pass… his childhood gets further away, and he can’t tell how much his imagination may fill in the gaps.

 

He feels like he’s lost track of something important -- not this photograph specifically, but something like it. Something that’s buried away, and he can’t reach it.

 

The hair on the back of his neck suddenly feels on end, and Barry lifts his head.  There’s lightning outside his window -- without thunder or rain to accompany it -- and his stomach does a drop.

 

All secrecy is abandoned as he runs outside, photographs kicked up with the sudden burst of his stride. He runs, circling the whole block twice, but as quickly as it came, there’s no trace again.

 

Nothing at all.

 

“Where are you?!” breaks out of him, and there’s no reply.

 

Is he being paranoid?

 

He stills himself with several slow, deep breaths, and tries to regain some sort of composure.

 

He returns to his room with his head bowed, and begins the unglorified task of fixing the mess he made of the albums. He pieces them back together, one by one -- but as he does, a realization dawns.

 

There’s an empty space: an image slot with nothing to fill it.

 

It’s impossible. These albums are fit to burst, every inch of space crammed with pictures and scraps of paper. No area ever went to waste. Barry digs through his room, looking for what might have been shaken away by the speed of his departure -- but there’s nothing.

 

He’s missing something.

 

Barry feels sick to his stomach as his fingers catch sharp corners, desperately flipping through the pages for an answer.

 

_ What did you take. What did you take from me. What did you want. _

 

There’s no answer to be found no matter how hard he looks, and Barry lets the album drop. His hands shake and he presses them against his mouth.

 

_ Don’t you have enough of me already? _

 

\--

 

His bed doesn’t feel familiar.

 

He’s too tired to piece it apart, somewhere between awake and dreaming, but the oddity of it stalls him from drifting away completely. It sits with discomfort; something foreign that he can’t place or explain. His sheets feel cold and too fresh -- nothing like the worn fabric that he’s tucked over his mattress over and over again.

 

But he’s in his own bed; he’s home -- so why doesn’t it feel right?

 

He turns, and he reaches, trying to stretch his arm out even as it’s weighed down by his exhaustion. As he rolls over, his face presses against the pillow case, and the scent is somehow familiar…

 

He breathes in and his hand extends, though he’s not sure what he’s reaching for--

 

\--but he catches something: the end of a sleeve, curling his fingers into the fabric and holding there to stall a retreat.

 

Tension is what answers him to start, but then resistance slowly slackens into something pliant. Fingers glide across his own, skimming up his forearm before he can catch them, and as the touch travels up to his shoulder, there’s a firm squeeze and a roll of a thumb against his collarbone.

 

Centering. Soothing. In a way he can’t explain, the contact seems to level him out, bring his wandering mind back towards something calm.

 

Barry makes a muffled noise, something half asleep, and fingers press to his lips to hush it, as if that will soothe him back into unconsciousness. There’s the opposite effect entirely, since his instinct is to open his mouth instead, and chase the contact before it slips away entirely. His effort earns him the tips of two fingers between his lips and he…

 

There’s a sharp intake of breath that isn’t his own, and drag of his tongue coaxes them deeper. He doesn’t know what makes him do it; he’s too halfway between awake and dreaming to wonder at it, he just wants…

 

He wants, he’s wanted, he’s been wanting…

 

What?

 

His eyes open to an empty room. He’s been dreaming -- dreaming in his own bed, no one else’s. Why would he be anywhere else?

 

He presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, his skin hot and his mind racing.

 

\--

 

“You’ve reached Dr. Harrison Wells--”

 

He calls too sporadically for it to be a ritual, but too obsessively for it to be anything else. His heart jumps into his throat every time and he chokes on it. Even just hearing his voice is disorienting; it throws his focus, makes his mind muddy and his chest tight.

 

The voice that used to be in his ear: steady, calm and guiding. Even now, as much as it chills, it instinctively soothes. He wonders at that suddenly: if he should ask Cisco if the radio in his suit could be tampered with, hacked into -- it doesn’t seem unlikely given what else Thawne had proved capable of.

 

Barry is too wrapped in his own thoughts to realize he hasn’t hung up yet. The beep has come and gone, and he’s held several beats of silence with the phone against his lips. The realization should shock him into action, make him drop the call, but instead it makes his mouth work.

 

“Are you listening to me?” he tries quietly. He sounds hoarse, and even more tired than he feels. He starts to babble, because once he’s started it’s hard to stop. “It doesn’t go straight to voicemail; it rings. So, that means your phone isn’t dead - you didn’t just throw it away somewhere. You’re keeping it.”

 

How many notifications of missed calls with Barry’s name would be flooding it?

 

The thought festers, and Barry catches his lower lip beneath his teeth. “Why would you keep it?” he continues, tone wavering. That’s a dangerous line; one ‘why’ threatens to keep more coming. He bites down on it, and his stomach feels sick, but he forces something out instead.

 

“Where are you?” he asks and his voice croaks. “I need--”

 

That’s more dangerous than ‘why’ -- so much more -- so he forces himself to close his mouth and drops the call with his teeth clenched.

 

\--

 

This feels like the wrong place to be.

 

He doesn’t tell anyone -- not even Joe -- but he generally tries not to make a habit of telling people when he comes to see his mother. He can’t tell if it’ll help sort him out or make it worse for him to be here, for him to try to speak to her, but he’s pulled forward nonetheless.

 

The cemetery always seems chilled, no matter what season. Barry pulls his sweater tighter, and he crouches by his mother’s headstone.

 

“Hi mom.”

 

Even that much feels dangerous. His eyes sting and his throat gets tight. He coughs, trying to clear it, but it doesn’t do much good against the sob trying to well up into his mouth. He fretfully runs his hand over her stone, noticing with a wince how already it’s beginning to show age, how it’s beginning to weather and fade. Bits of dry old leaves are tucked into the dents of her name on the stone, and he tries to work them out with his fingertips. His hands prove too big for the task, and it only makes him feel worse.

 

“I’m sorry that I -- I haven’t been to visit much. It’s just…”

 

Barry stands as if it will steady him, but it doesn’t do much good. He rubs his hand over his mouth, as if that will make the words come out more easily.

 

“Do you -- do you remember when I was scared of the dark? And you told me… you told me it wasn’t about that; that I was actually scared of being alone.”

 

Barry presses his lips together, and he takes a deep, slow breath in attempt to steady himself.

 

“I think I remember… that I thought about that. About being alone. And you were right; it seemed so much scarier the more I thought about it. So I think… I think I wished that I wouldn’t be.” His breath is shuddering. “That I’d never be alone. Since it sounded so awful.”

 

Catching his lower lip beneath his teeth, he has to pause. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and they form fists there.

 

“I think I got my wish. Accidentally.” He laughs and it sounds more like a sob, because he can’t help himself. “Because I don’t think I’ve been alone for a really long time.”

 

Now that he’s begun it’s hard to stop, and his lips keep moving. He focuses on her name, the curved font that marks her place, as if it’s the only thing he can see.

 

“Sometimes -- it’s stupid, but I think I can feel it. I can feel something here--” One hand leaves his pocket and he pushes his fingertips right where his ribs separate. “Right here. Like a magnet. I didn’t know what it was for a long time, but now I think I do, and it feels crazy but… but when you…”

 

The words still choke on their way out.

 

“When you died, I thought I was crazy too. Because no one believed me. So many people -- and the doctors, told me I was in denial, and that I was making things up because I couldn’t cope. Not just that, the science added up too… so, it wasn’t like there was any room for doubt. When everyone else thinks you’re making something up, and every bit of evidence says so too, then it has to be me, right? I had to be delusional.”

 

His voice keeps picking up speed. He can’t help it; the words keep coming and they begin to slur as emotion chokes his throat.

 

“But I wasn’t. After everything, after my whole life, feeling like I was crazy, now I know that I was right. But I can’t -- I can’t do anything about it and he’s… he’s…”

 

He taps that spot again, that treacherous ache in his abdomen: that pull that digs from the root of him.

 

“Now that I know, I can feel it,” he continues weakly. “I don’t know how but I can feel it -- I can feel him -- and it’s... “

 

He can’t describe it, and that’s the worst thing. He doesn’t know how to make anyone understand -- he doesn’t even understand it himself.

 

“Is that why he’s doing this?” Barry knows he isn’t making sense but he can’t help himself. “Is that what this --” Another hard jab of his fingertips to his abdomen “--does to people?”

 

Does it drive them insane?

 

“Because -- because if it is, I… I think it’s happening to me too,” he manages helplessly. “Because I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling.”

 

Shakily, he wipes his cheeks dry with his coat sleeve, and he mumbles with a shaky exhale. “Sorry, I’m -- I’m sorry, mom, I just… I know what he did to you. I know now. But I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who to talk to.”

 

And the horrible truth is, before all of this, the person he would have spoken to was Harrison Wells.

 

\--

 

He dreams about lightning.

 

There’s a storm outside his room: bright light and booming thunder. Sleep makes it feel more caging than reality, the sounds shuddering and the brightness blinding. Maybe that’s why he isn’t alone now, and that second body pressed against his own is seeking comfort from the storm.

 

It should make sense, but it doesn’t apply; it would be some kind of hypocrisy for their kind to shrink from thunder.

 

Their kind? That phrasing doesn’t sound like him. It sounds like...

 

Like him. 

 

What should be frightening is something else: red eyes in the dark and a voice that thrums like the electricity that lines their bones. Instead, his hands reach to pull him closer. He feels weighed down by sleep, foggy but eager, and when the next flash of lightning illuminates the room, he sees skin instead of yellow leather.

 

The dream feels muddy, and it’s hard to keep track. Thawne moves against him, on him, takes him in, and makes a hushing sound once his own moan fades in his throat -- as if Barry’s choked gasp could be overheard outside the gauzy realm of his imagination.

 

Laughing under his breath, shaky and delighted, Thawne rocks his hips. He’s smiling with too much teeth, the red of his eyes casting a glow over his skin -- like a blush that doesn’t at all suit the utter abandon in which he moves on Barry, over and over, pushing until their hips meet, and grinding down together.

 

“You’re --” Barry starts shakily, but connecting words is past his reach. “I’m--” All that he can manage is another moan, and Thawne answers with one of his own, circling Barry’s wrists in his grip.

 

“Do you feel it?” he taunts, guiding Barry’s hands to his hips. “Flash?”

 

Barry whines under his breath, something that might have been a curse, and his hips snap up. The sound Thawne makes in response is sharper, softer than Barry would have expected from him -- and he realizes how desperately he wants to hear more. So, he does it again -- harder, and harder, and he’s rewarded with a drawn out moan.

 

And he can feel something -- something that thuds at the base of his spine and crackles through his limbs like static. He feels thick, magnetized, and he arches in attempt to push himself closer. “What -- what is this?”

 

Thawne takes his wrist again, laying Barry’s hand over the space where their bodies connect. “You’re part of me.”

 

_ Part of a Speed Force. _

 

What?

 

Barry snaps awake. There’s no storm. No rain, no thunder, and no one in his bed -- but he’s left with tension in his stomach and his swiftly beating heart.

 

\--

 

The next time he’s alone in the Labs, he enters the Time Vault.

 

Rubbing his hands together, he finds his skin clammy. It makes him hesitate, for the barest of instants, before he approaches the podium and lays his hand on top of it.

 

“Good evening, Barry Allen.”

 

Gideon comes to life with a steady stream of light, its -- her -- body coming together in the opposite corner. He smiles when he sees her, and considers his phrasing.

 

“Uh -- hi, Gideon,” he greets tentatively, admittedly uncertain about how to speak to her. “I was wondering if I could talk to you?”

 

“Of course.” He isn’t sure why he expected any other answer. “What would you like to talk about?”

 

That’s the question. Barry works his jaw, and he debates. “I wanted to talk to you about Dr. Wells?” he tries to start. “Or -- Eobard Thawne?”

 

“I don’t understand,” Gideon replies. “Which do you mean?”

 

Barry’s brow furrows, and he half wonders if this is some programming done to muddy the water in case this very thing happens. “Let’s -- try Dr. Wells,” he amends. “How did you end up with him? You said that… that I made you?”

 

“You did.”

 

“So then…no, but I couldn’t have,” he says, not self deprecating but honest. “You’re… how advanced you are…”

 

“My advancements are by Dr. Wells,” she explains simply. “My original design is yours, however, I was outdated by several decades; Dr. Wells brought me up to speed.”

 

The phrasing gives Barry pause, and Gideon continues. “A joke. You hoped I would develop an individual consciousness, and encouraged me to joke.”

 

This is too much. He nervously tucks his hands over the back of his neck and heaves a breath. “So -- wait. I don’t understand. If you were so old, why didn’t he just… find something new? Why fix you up?”

 

“Sentiment.”

 

Barry pauses, lowering his hands slowly, and Gideon continues. “He is very fond of you.”

 

She says it so matter-of-fact, so simply, that it makes Barry’s chest tight.

 

“But he wants to kill me.”

 

“Yes.” No hesitation. “That was his primary goal in this time.”

 

“Was?”

 

Gideon gives an uncharacteristic silence, and it puts Barry on edge for a reason he can’t place. “Gideon?” he presses. “What else do you know?”

 

“I don’t understand the question. I have access to an extraordinarily large database; I know a lot of things.”

 

Barry catches his lower lip beneath his teeth. Something swells in his chest, fit to burst, and he can’t help himself.

 

“Can you show me Thawne?” he blurts on an instinct he can’t name. “Eobard Thawne?”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“He has so much of me --” Barry keeps talking because he isn’t sure how to stop. “He’s taken so much. I just want something of him. Anything. I just need something. I need to know who he is-- what he wants.”

 

Something to make them less unbalanced.

 

“I’m sorry,” Gideon says, and Barry’s shoulders sink. He nods, keeping his head bowed low, and just as his hand raises to the podium, Gideon continues.

 

“He loves you.”

 

Barry goes very still, wide eyes raising to Gideon’s brightly lit figure, where her expression remains unreadable.

 

“Very much.”

 

Barry touches the podium and she disappears, leaving him more lost than when he started.

 

\--

 

Wells’ house feels eerily cold when he enters it. The lock relents easily under the steady vibration of his hand, and Barry’s footsteps echo through the entryway. When he first came to this place, there was a certain sort of awe that swelled up in him. Now, it felt clammy; caging -- like the walls might come in on him.

 

Barry doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he searches the house as fast as his feet will take him. He’s thorough, digging through drawers and lifting furniture, but all his effort comes up with nothing. He isn’t sure what he expects; Wells -- Thawne -- prides himself on being steps ahead. If he had anything compromising in his house, he would have already gotten rid of it.

 

Still.

 

Outside, a storm starts -- and Barry goes very still until the lightning shows to be white instead of red. The tall glass walls of Thawne’s home give the flashes an eerie impact, illuminating the whole house after every clap of thunder.

 

Until this point, Barry has been stubbornly avoiding his bedroom. Something about that seems too exposed. There’s a funny idea: that courtesy tries to hold him back, even now. Even after everything he’s done.

 

With that thought in mind, he goes forward. It feels like a token defiance. Considering how much of his life has Thawne has been privy to, this hardly makes up for that -- but it feels bitterly satisfying nonetheless.

 

Not that it gains him anything. The room is as cold and minimalistic as the rest of the house. There’s nothing to betray even much of a personality. The only thing is the bookshelf, and it’s mostly a bunch of scientific journals -- nothing to read for pleasure.

 

Barry decides picks one up anyway, as if in an act of defiance. There’s several black cover books, and he realizes what they are as his fingers begin skimming. They’re not just any science papers: they’re Thawne’s own.

 

Taking one in hand, Barry sits on the edge of the bed and flips through it. All in all, it isn’t as personal as he would expect: it’s all very to the point; all notes and annotation and precise calculation. There isn’t even a trail of thought, no musings or puzzling out a particular problem… did he throw all of that away? Did he only keep track of his successes?

 

Defeatedly, Barry sinks back against the bed. Distantly, thunder booms, and he feels it prickle up his spine.

 

What did he think he’d gain by coming here?

 

His hands rest against the mattress, his thumb rolling idly against cool sheets -- and somehow…

 

Has he been here before?

 

Barry pauses for a moment before he very deliberately slides his hand across the mattress. He remembers a dream about thin, smooth sheets and lightning illuminates the sky outside.

 

He’d been dreaming about…

 

On some instinct he can’t name, he nudges his shoes off of his feet and drags the blankets around himself. It feels invasive somehow, being in someone else’s bed like this -- but Thawne has done so much worse… by comparison, this is hardly anything.

 

At the same time, it doesn’t feel bold. He feels like he’s been here: like he’s felt this before…

 

But that isn’t right. He knows that it isn’t. And… then, there’s that pull again, at the core of him. It’s heavy in his gut and he sinks against the mattress like he’s anchored there. Thunder booms, lightning sparks, and Barry feels his sweat on his skin.

 

He dreamt about being here: the dream where he breathed in a scent that he knew, but he couldn’t place. He knows the origins of that now: something clean and sharp and magnetic.

 

Throat tight, Barry rolls onto his stomach and his breath gets short. He can’t do this. He can’t honestly consider--

 

Rather than rest his head on it, Barry grabs the pillow and brings it down beneath the covers with him, tucking it between his thighs. Breath catching, he lets his hips move.

 

It’s stupid. It’s shameless. But he can’t help himself. He doesn’t even try to delude himself: this house, this bed, and the storm outside. There isn’t any point in lying; he isn’t thinking about Harrison Wells. He thinks about---

 

“Thawne,” he gasps against cold bedding. “Eobard Thawne--”

 

\--

 

There’s a playground close to Joe’s house.

 

When he was young and had a habit of running away, this was a common hideaway. It wasn’t a very good one, considering how obvious it was, but it worked well for a few minutes of juvenile vitriol. The swings feel so much smaller when he sits in one, and he loosely wraps his hands around the chain.

 

Something draws him here. He isn’t sure what, but at the same time he is -- maybe he has to stop denying it to himself, but the reality seems far too surreal.

 

Kicking his heels up off the gravel, Barry throws himself forward on the swing. Strange how even now, even with everything he’s capable of, an old familiar rush comes over him when he pumps his legs and lets the swing rock forward and back. The set is old, and creaks with something like protest when Barry pushes too hard, so he gives it up soon enough, letting himself slow to a stop.

 

It always feels different here at night. The street lamps cast an almost orange glow, and they flicker on the outskirts of the property. This late, the air is quiet except for the creak of the chains -- and a sudden crunch of worn shoes against gravel.

 

“Hello, Barry.”

 

Thawne stands on the edge, where the grass changes into gravel, and his lips wear an almost weary smile. Somehow, Barry isn’t surprised to see him -- he isn’t surprised by any of this now.

 

Craning his head to the side, Thawne gives a sigh that’s something like fondness. “You always come here when you’re upset,” he says with sweet familiarity, like an old friend, and it raises the hair on Barry’s neck. “Or you used to.”

 

He says it so casually: admitting to every twisted thing he’s done like it’s some cherished memory shared between them.

 

“I grew out of it,” Barry counters, and Thawne’s reply is a chuckle.

 

“Apparently not.”

 

Barry slumps, and his temple presses to the chain. He should feel anger at the sight of him, his entire body should swell with defiance and outrage, but now he feels exhausted -- weighed down with the knowledge that even if he tried to beat Thawne now, he’d only fail.

 

This isn’t a confrontation; this is a game.

 

Barry exhales slowly, and his eyes narrow as he focuses on the man before him.

 

“Yeah. You followed me enough to know that,” Barry begins slowly, “but what else did you do?”

 

Thawne is quiet, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, and Barry lets himself go on. “I was thinking -- you know, when you’re young, and sometimes you don’t trust your memory,” he isn’t entirely sure of the words before he says them, but his voice is steady and doesn’t fail him. “Sometimes you pretend or imagine things. Kids’ minds cope like that. That’s something the doctors said a lot.”

 

There’s a bitter smile at that, and Thawne doesn’t share it. One corner of the man’s mouth twitches, but that’s all, and Barry continues.

 

“I remember my first Christmas without my parents, Joe didn’t want me to see my dad.” Barry wets his mouth with his tongue and he takes a breath. “And I did want to -- of course I did, so I decided I’d sneak out while Joe was at work and Iris was sleeping, and go there myself…

 

“And there was this snowstorm, a big one, but I thought I could make it. Because it was Christmas, and I couldn’t let my dad be alone on Christmas. So I kept walking, even if I couldn’t see anything in front of me. I kept going.”

 

The swingset creaks as Barry’s hand tightens on the chain.

 

“I didn’t make it there. I didn’t really know what happened at all, because I woke up Christmas morning with Iris jumping on my bed and with the worst cold of my life.”

 

Thawne’s expression doesn’t change, and Barry sets his jaw.

 

“So… what happened? Did I dream trying to walk to Iron Heights in the first place? Did I forget being picked up by Joe or someone else on the street who found me? Or… did I pass out because of the cold, and get put back in bed by someone watching over me?”

 

Thawne says nothing, and it’s somehow more condemning than words would be. Barry can only take it as affirmative, and it doesn’t even shock; he knew it all already. Felt it, somehow.

 

Because of this thing between them.

 

“I couldn’t let you die.”

 

“Because you needed me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Because of--” Barry tries to find the words, but finds them hard to muster, and instead his fist curls against his abdomen.

 

Thawne at least reacts: he smiles, and it’s somehow weary and fond at the same time. “Yes.”

 

“What is it?” Barry finally breaks and asks defeatedly.

 

“The Speed Force?”

 

Thawne’s mouth forms the word so particularly, like he tastes it against his teeth, and Barry’s hands tighten on the chain.

 

“The Speed Force,” Barry repeats, saying it slowly, as if not to step on Thawne’s soft reverence. “Is that what you call it? This thing between you and me?”

 

Barry debates leaving it at that, but then a defiant, petty part of him won’t let it sit.

 

“Because Gideon calls it something else.”

 

There should be some satisfaction in seeing Thawne’s eyes widen, in seeing the brief but very genuine shock on his face. Instead, it just leaves Barry feeling miserable. Thawne smiles again easily enough, with a disbelieving huff of a laugh. “Gideon listens to your commands,” he concludes belatedly, then his expression softens. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

 

Barry lets out a breath and slumps to the side, his temple pressing to the chain of the swing. “Tell me the truth,” he says, and he wishes he could tell if his tone was a demand or a plea. “All of it.”

 

Thawne seems to consider it -- or at least it appears that way. His brows tighten, and his mouth pulls at one corner. After several seconds, he takes a step forward -- then another, his shoes crunching against the gravel.

 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I did,” Thawne counters quietly.

 

“Try.”

 

Thawne scoffs, then there’s a moment where his expression seems to change. Barry blinks, he disappears, and he’s suddenly shoved, thrown forward hard enough to make the chains of the swing creak. His hands tighten down, so he doesn’t fall, and on the way back down, he spots Thawne in the seat next to him. He’s watching Barry swing, forward and back, and he’s smiling with too many teeth.

 

“It’s an interesting feeling,” Thawne muses quietly, glancing up to where the chains connect at the top of the swing set. Long fingers slowly curl around the chains. “Not really vertigo, is it? But it’s something serene: exciting and peaceful at the same time, somehow.”

 

Digging his heels into the gravel, Barry slows himself to a halt. He doesn’t speak, he somehow already instinctively knows, without needing Thawne to elaborate. It’s a similar rush: the momentum that throws him forward here, and the Speed Force that lines his bones, steadies his strides.

 

“The truth, Barry,” Thawne at last replies, idly rolling back on his ankles. “Is that, while I may need you, you don’t really need me.”

 

That would be nice if it could be real. Shoulders sinking, Barry sighs. “I can’t phase,” he admits weakly, and it eats at his core. 

 

“You can,” Thawne answers, though he isn’t looking at Barry now. “You have; you will.”

 

It doesn’t have the same tone; there’s none of the steady reassurance left. Instead, it’s something resigned; as if the notion is something inevitable and grim, rather than bright and promising.

 

“Because you know the future,” Barry says dryly, and Thawne makes an affirmative hum.

 

“A future, yes.” The distinction seems simple, but the clarification is firmly spoken -- as if Thawne won’t have the fact disputed.

 

“You’re different,” Thawne goes on to say, that mirthless grin pulling at his lips. “Very different. But enough stays the same.”

 

Thawne rocks forward and back, hands curled loosely around the chains of the swing, and Barry feels something heavy in the pit of his stomach, as if he can feel words in Thawne’s throat before they come.

 

“You were here once, with Iris,” Thawne begins. “When had your wrist and your heart broken all in one day.”

 

_ \--a worn photograph of himself with scraped knees and swollen red eyes…. _

 

“And I was so…” Thawne cuts himself off, laughing in a way that’s disbelieving, then all at once his speech is hurried and hot. “That kind of anger, it’s hard to place. Following you, protecting you -- it was survival to start, obviously; without the Flash, how could I go home? How could I even exist? But this was different: the idea of what I would do, if someone hurt you… and at the same time, hating you, wanting to ruin you…”

 

Shaking his head, Thawne scoffs.

 

“It’s wrong to say that’s where it started. Time’s tricky that way.”

 

Barry says nothing right away, trying to swallow down the tension in his throat with no success. The park is eerily still, quiet except for the creak of chains as Thawne moves back and forth.

 

“I won’t forgive you,” he says suddenly, and unconvincing even to his own ears.

 

As if there’s no real shock, Thawne’s reply is flat. “That’s only fair,” he says simply. “I haven’t forgiven you, either.”

 

“For what?” Barry asks brashly, frustration and confusion bleeding into his every word. “What did I do?”

 

His hair is blown back and Thawne is suddenly before him. His hands grip the chain of Barry’s swing, holding him in place as Thawne looms above him.

 

“You haven’t done anything yet,” he tells him, tone oddly soft.

 

Not yet. But he will. In the future -- a future.

 

He knows Thawne is faster, so it’s only because Thawne allows it that he grabs hold of the front of his coat and pulls. There’s too much force behind the kiss, and their teeth knock, but Barry pushes past it. More gently than Barry anticipates, Thawne buries a hand in his hair, and moans in the back of his throat -- but it doesn’t last: before the kiss breaks, teeth dig into his lower lip, leaving behind a coppery pang and a smear of red. Barry cringes, and Thawne hums. 

 

That’s all of this at once: Thawne’s softness and malice, warring feelings for what Barry is and what he will be.

 

“I don’t want to be alone,” Barry admits, stupid and rash, and when Thawne smiles, there’s red on his teeth.

 

“I know,” Thawne sighs, his fingers following the line of Barry’s jaw, and when Barry leans up to reclaim the kiss again, he’s met with an empty space and a sudden gust of wind. 

 

Thawne’s exit shakes the park, the now empty swing behind Barry rocking, and the street lamps flickering.

 

\--

 

“Good evening, Barry Allen -- you appear to be injured. Do you require medical attention?”

 

Barry smiles and winces at the same time, giving a vague gesture with his bandaged arm. “Oh, don’t worry, Gideon; it’s okay. It’ll be healed up pretty fast.”

 

It seems odd -- asking a program not to worry, but maybe it’s justified because Gideon continues. “May I ask the cause?”

 

Barry pauses, and he wonders why he’s so concerned with a machine’s opinion of him. Then again, Gideon seems far more complicated than that… and looking foolish in front of her still seems embarrassing. “Oh, I -- um.” Barry considers his phrasing with a huff of breath. “Hit a wall.”

 

“I see; you still haven’t mastered phasing through solid objects.”

 

Barry doesn’t know why he’s surprised. “No,” he says, with a sigh that heaves through his whole body. “Not yet.”

 

“You will,” Gideon replies smoothly, and Barry can’t help a weak grin.

 

“Did Dr. Wells tell you that?” he asks dryly.

 

“Yes,” she replies easily.

 

“Another shocker,” Barry mutters, and he examines his wrist, instead of looking at her. It’s easy to talk to Gideon, to have the illusion of someone listening without any fallback. It’s a miserable way to cope, but for now it’s what he has. “Do you know what I think, Gideon?”

 

“It’s impossible for me to know what you’re thinking, Barry Allen,” Gideon states bluntly, and Barry should have known better.

 

“Right. Sorry. I just… sometimes, I feel like… all this stuff? Everything he’s done for me… I wonder if he was giving it all to me, just to see how much I hurt when he took it away.” Barry forces a smile, and he shrugs his shoulders with false dismissiveness. “I think maybe it’s because he wants me to feel how he feels… because that’s what I did to him? He wanted me, and I hurt him; I left him alone. I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”

 

A feeling in his chest. Heavy as an anchor, deep as winding roots of trees.

 

“So maybe, none of this.” Barry vaguely gestures to the space around them. “Was genuine. He just wanted to hurt me. That’s all it was, right from the start.

 

“But I guess he wouldn’t tell you that,” Barry adds, just a little hopeful, but he knows the answer already.

 

“Unfortunately not,” Gideon replies, and Barry nods, but before he can speak, she’s already continuing. “However, he has told me that should the situation arise where he ceases to exist in this timeline, that I am permitted to use the information at my disposal to serve as an advisor to the Flash. I think, considering the circumstance, that rule may be bent, and I would be able to assist you.”

 

Wait. What? 

 

“I’m sorry, Gideon,” Barry starts uneasily, holding up his good hand as if to pause the conversation as it passes through the air. “What was that? What do you mean?”

 

“To keep you up to speed,” Gideon says in a way that is almost cheeky -- or an attempted imitation of it. “To assure your future, Barry Allen, I am tasked to look after you in the absence of Dr. Wells. I have his notes; if you would like to attempt phasing through objects, I am prepared to guide you.”

 

Why would he do that?

 

Barry pauses, and after several seconds of stunned silence, he laughs. 

 

Never mind. He knows the answer to that already.

 

“You know? No, actually, Gideon; I think I’m good,” he answers firmly, and for the first time in what feels like too long, his smile feels full and genuine.

 

“Of course,” she says. “Should that change, you aren’t alone.”

 

Despite himself, Barry laughs again, and he nods his head.

 

“Yeah, I know,” he tells her, with cautious optimism. “But I think I’m okay by myself.”


End file.
